


anything we want

by Anjali_Organna



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Ginny is bossy as per, Mike has lots of feelings, Old Man Lawson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjali_Organna/pseuds/Anjali_Organna
Summary: The night before the Padres are due to start their first spring training without Mike Lawson in over a decade, Ginny shows up at his house.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bulk of this was written before 1x04 aired and so doesn't take any of the "rival catcher" storyline into account. Many thanks to kitoky for her baseball insights; all remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Epigraph is from On Marriage by Marilyn Hacker.

_This moment my whole_  
_trajectory's toward you, and it's not losing_  
_momentum. Call it anything we want._

 

The morning Mike decides he’s going to retire, he literally rolls out of bed and lands on the floor. His fucking knees and fucking back seem to be working in concert against him, twinging and spasming together and causing him to fail first at sitting up and then at standing. Hence, the floor.

It’s while he’s lying there, groaning and staring at his ceiling, that he thinks: _I’m done_. Despite what his ex-wife and his ex-girlfriends might all think, Mike actually can envision his life after baseball, and that life does not include being so zonked out on painkillers from running his body into the ground that he can’t appreciate all the money he’s earned over the nearly two decades he’s played professional sports. He’s met enough retired players who can’t even sit down without taking a goddamn Vicodin or whatever, and he knows that’s where he’s headed if he doesn’t stop soon.

 

The day Mike tells Al and Oscar that he’s out at the end of the season, they ask him if he’ll reconsider but don’t push him when he says his mind is made up. He’s thirty-seven years old and they’ve all been doing this a long time. The news spreads rapidly through the clubhouse and by the end of the day, it’s clear everyone knows.

Ginny finds him then, sitting in a tub of ice with a beer and his eyes closed.

“You’re retiring,” she says accusingly. Mike opens his eyes and sees her standing there, young and healthy and perfect, her entire career ahead of her. “Had to happen sometime, Baker,” he replies, shutting his eyes again.

“But—”

“But what?” he snaps. It’s probably not fair of him, but it’s been a long day filled with people coming up and commiserating and his knees are fucking killing him. He is _not_ in the mood to deal with Ginny Baker and everything she represents. If he’d had half a brain, he would have found her that morning and told her right away and gotten the whole conversation over with while he still felt fresh. In her second year in the majors, Ginny’s lost some of her naivety and has gained a truckload of well-earned confidence, but he remembers how he felt when his own mentor had retired Mike’s third season. He remembers that gut reaction of irrational betrayal, and of loss. He’s not at all surprised that she’s angry with him.

“But—I thought—” she stutters. It’s clear she hadn’t expected him to be angry with _her_ in return.

“Thought what? That I’d be around forever to hold your hand?”

Her face shuts down. “You know what, screw you, Lawson. I’m sorry I made the mistake of _caring_.” She storms away and Mike sighs, sinking down into the ice bath. The cold water stings, and it’s no more than he deserves.

 

The afternoon they officially announce his retirement, Frank holds a press conference where he and Oscar and Al all say the usual things, about the impact Mike’s had on the team and how much they’ll miss him. It’s not really a surprise to the rest of the world; the news had trickled out in the week since he’d told the Padres. Mike stands there and says the usual things in response, accepts the praise that comes his way, expresses the right amount of gratitude for the career he’s had, and manages to crack a joke or two about ESPN making room for him in Bristol.

He should have anticipated the question about Ginny and immediately feels like a fool when it catches him by surprise: “You and Ginny Baker have established quite a rapport in the two years she’s been with the Padres, Mike,” says the reporter. “Do you think she’ll have any problems with your replacement?”

Mike gives the man a gimlet-eyed stare. “I notice you’re not asking about any of our other pitchers, Sam.”

Sam shrugs unrepentantly. Two years in, and while the level of Ginsanity has faded, the man knows very well that any question about Ginny Baker will still garner coverage.

Mike says, “Ginny’s pitched to other catchers before and she’s been fine. There’s no reason to think that won’t be the case next season. She’s a damn good pitcher; I’m not the one responsible for that. Next question.”

It certainly won’t be the end of the discussion—the talking heads need something to fill their airtime with after all, but Mike’s not planning on addressing it again. Al can, if he wants, but that’s Al’s job.

“Thanks,” Ginny says later. It’s the first time in a week that she’s spoken to him off the mound.

“Sorry about before,” Mike says. “It was an unexpectedly rough day.”

She bobs a nod, her lashes lowered. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have—it wasn’t about me.”

“No shit, Baker,” he says. “I’m supposed to be the narcissist here, come on.”

She rolls her eyes at him, as he’d meant her to, and things more or less go back to normal.

 

The last home game Mike plays for the Padres falls on a Saturday. It’s a beautiful day in September, which seems fitting. The sun is shining and there’s just a tiny hint of a breeze and it’s seventy-five degrees out; a perfect day to play ball. Every moment, from his arrival at the clubhouse to strapping on his guards to the long walk out to the field feels weighted down with meaning. He wonders if this is how Ginny feels, all the time, every single one of her actions imbued with significance no matter how mundane.

They’re playing an Angels team that has totally fallen apart, which means that Ginny pitches well into the seventh. She probably could finish out the inning with no interference from him, but after two strikeouts, a couple hits that are fouled off, and two balls, Mike trots up to the mound.

“Hey,” he says, pulling up his face mask. She looks irritated but he ignores this. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” she says shortly. “I know I screwed up that last ball, but I got this next one.”

“I know,” he says.

“Then why’d you come up here?”

He shrugs. “Just checking in. I know you can do it.”

She stares at him. “I’m _so_ glad we had this little talk.”

“Bring it home, Baker,” he says and trots back.

She does, of course, following his calls to perfection, almost like she’s trying to prove him wrong for making the trip in the first place. It’s not until they’re back in the dugout after the inning’s over and Al’s made the call to switch her out that she gets it. Mike’s standing by the water cooler, sipping and watching the other team take the field when she appears next to him, eyes wide.

“That was the last time…” Ginny says and he nods. The last time he’d ever visit the mound while she’s pitching, the last time he’d ever offer advice or encouragement. The last time they’d stand together in an isolated bubble at the pitcher’s plate, alone amidst their teammates and a sea of screaming fans. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“And mess with your head? You had a guy to strike out, Baker, don’t be stupid.”

She shuts her mouth and looks down, the delicate muscles of her throat working, and for a panicked moment Mike thinks she might actually cry. In the two years he’s known her he has never, ever seen Ginny Baker cry, not when those goddamn photos were released, not when that fucking asshole on talk radio called her all sorts of things that Mike doesn’t ever want to think about again, not even when an idiot rookie from the Jays accidentally hit her with a wild pitch at the end of the last season.

“Hey,” he says gruffly. “There’s no crying in baseball.”

This makes her laugh and look up. He’s relieved to see no tears but her eyes are brighter than normal. “I thought you’d sworn you’d never seen that movie.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “I lied. Everyone’s seen that movie. It’s Tom Hanks.”

“I didn’t even think about it, when you walked up,” she says. “I wish I had.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Your mind was where it needed to be. You pitched a great game, Ginny.”

She smiles wryly. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Mike drops his mitt on the bench beside them and takes her shoulders in both hands. “Yes, you could have,” he says firmly, looking her full in the face, his voice serious. “You absolutely could have. And next season, you will. You’re gonna be fine.”

Her eyes drop again and her lips press tightly together. Then she gathers herself with an effort and says, meeting his gaze, “I know I will. And yeah, maybe I could have done it without you. But I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

He swallows and looks away, blinking. “Okay, kid, go away. I still got a game to finish.”

When it’s over, he’s glad his last game will be marked down as a win for her.

 

The evening of his retirement party, it rains, which also seems fitting. Despite the bad weather, several hundred of his nearest and dearest have crammed into a private room at the club of the moment in downtown San Diego. Mike’s oddly touched by the turnout. Among the crowd are many faces he’d never assumed would show up: old teammates and some friends from other teams, trainers, coaches, and other staff from Petco, even some sports media figures he’d become friendly with over the course of his career down from L.A. Rachel had called him and asked if he wanted her there and he’d said, honestly, that he would like her to come. Their marriage had been destroyed by baseball, but it had also originally started because of it. It feels right for her to be there, at the end.

Ginny’s there, of course, huddled with the rest of the current team and a few of the wives and girlfriends who’ve taken over several banquettes in the back. Mike’s been to enough of these sorts of parties to know how the team is feeling in this moment. There’s an adjustment period whenever someone who’s made an indelible impact on a team leaves; a mental rejiggering that needs to happen to figure out _okay, who are we now? How do we fit together in his absence?_ His leaving has created a hole that needs filling and they’re all trying to work out what the chemistry of a Padres team feels like without Mike Lawson.

They’ll be fine. He can say this because he’s been through it before and because this is _his_ team; knowing things like this about his teammates is part of what made him such a great captain.

Normally when he’s out at a club with Ginny, a part of him remains aware of where she is at all times. He’s not so creepy as to watch her outright, and it’s not like he’s ever actively paying attention to things like who she talks to or how much she’s drinking. It’s more just a general awareness of the space in the room where she exists. He likes to tell himself that he’s just looking out for her when they’re in these sorts of situations; she’s the first female in the majors and is therefore a target for harassment, and he’s the captain. It’s his job to make sure she’s okay. Deep down he knows, however, that he’s almost always aware of where Ginny is, regardless of their surroundings. The reason _why_ is never something he allows himself to dwell on for very long.

Tonight, this sort of watchfulness is impossible: everyone is here for him and everyone wants to talk to him. Mike’s an extroverted guy so he doesn’t actually mind the constant socialization, but it means that he’s always sort of startled whenever he looks up mid-sentence and catches sight of her, dazzling in a short red dress and thigh-high boots that leave his mouth dry. He’d had enough presence of mind to make a joke about them when he finally talks to her and she’d admitted ruefully that the boots were Evelyn’s, borrowed for the occasion.

Ginny’s received more media training than practically all of the rest of them put together, so she easily handles the journalists who want her two cents on the future of the Padres. Her preference for not dating ballplayers is well known at this point but that doesn’t stop some of the players from the other teams from going up to her. As usual, she sticks close to Evelyn and Blip, and Mike knows that Tommy and the rest of the guys will also watch out for her in his absence. She’s one of theirs, now, and the team that Mike helped build takes care of their own. She’ll be fine.

 

The night before the Padres are due to start their first spring training without Mike Lawson in over a decade, Ginny shows up at his house.

“You okay?” he asks, letting her in. She follows him through to the kitchen where he resumes cooking dinner. Since his retirement, he’s tried branching out a little; tonight is a pasta dish and he mentally reassesses the ingredients he has on hand to make sure there’s enough for her.

“Yeah,” she says, dropping her bag on the floor and taking a seat on one of the barstools across the counter from him. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just nervous.”

Mike raises a brow. “You went to Peoria last year, remember?” At her nod, he continues, “It’s spring training, Gin. It’s not anything to get nervous about.”

“I know,” she says, picking up a piece of broccoli from the cutting board and popping it in her mouth. Mike makes a show of moving the board out of her reach and she smiles faintly. “It just…feels weird without you.”

“That’ll pass,” he says gently. “Soon you’re going to be so busy you won’t have time to think about it, and before you know it the season will start.”

She nods, not quite appeased, and he turns away to the stovetop to continue cooking. She says, “Do you need any help?” and Mike throws an amused look over his shoulder at her. “When was the last time you cooked anything that didn’t come from a box?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “See if I offer to help you ever again.”

“You can do the dishes,” Mike says, turning back and resuming stirring.

“You _always_ make me do the dishes.”

He shrugs. “Learn to cook like a grown-up, then I’ll give you a better job.”

Ginny snorts. “Says the man who could only make scrambled eggs like half a year ago.”

He turns fully around at this, pointing his wooden spoon at her. “Hey. You _love_ my scrambled eggs.”

“ _Do_ I?” she muses, tilting her head thoughtfully, and Mike throws a dishtowel at her.

After dinner, they migrate over to the couch in unspoken agreement. There’s nothing particularly noteworthy about this in and of itself; they’ve done it plenty of times before. He flips on ESPN and they spend a good half hour abusing the on-air commentators who are previewing spring training. His couch is big, but they’re sitting close together; this is also not particularly noteworthy. They’ve sat like this plenty of times before. But _before_ , they were also teammates. Before, Ginny was the first female in the Majors and he was her team captain; she was the rookie and Mike was the superstar catcher who had women falling all over themselves on a near-daily basis. When he and Ginny sat together, there was a lot more between them than just the couple inches of space, before.

Mike’s not exactly sure when he realizes that they’re now in _after_ territory. Maybe it’s when she doesn’t leave, staying past the time when she would have normally headed home. Maybe it’s when she tries to whack him across the chest after a particularly smart-assed remark and he catches her wrist, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin there in a way he has never allowed himself to do before. When his eyes linger on her face and she meets his gaze and holds it, neither of them turning away.

“Ginny,” Mike says, very softly.

She studies him carefully. What she sees in his face must reassure her because she relaxes ever so slightly, leaning even closer to him. And in the end, that’s it: no grand declarations, no catalyst other than her name on his lips and the sway of her body into his. When they move towards each other, they move together, at the same time.

He kisses her gently at first, wanting to take his time. She kisses him back urgently, licking into his mouth with a palpable hunger. “Slow down,” Mike murmurs and she responds by climbing into his lap. He laughs because _of course_ she does, and then groans when she grinds down against his rapidly hardening cock.

“What’s your rush, Gin?” he gasps, gripping her hips.

“It’s been _two years_ ,” she says. There’s a note in her voice that strikes a chord in him, deep down, because he’s felt it, too. He can’t help but meet her movements with an involuntary thrust upwards and despite himself he grins when her breath goes whooshing out at the contact.

“I know exactly how long it’s been,” he says, “which is why I’m gonna enjoy myself.”

Ginny pulls back a little, brow raised in an expression he’s come to know well. “What, are you saying we only get a single shot at this tonight? ‘Cause I know you’re basically a step away from the grave, old man, but _come on_. Don’t tell me this is a one-and-done.”

And _that_ is not something Mike can let go, even though they’re both well aware of how she’s winding him up. “You really wanna go there, Baker?” he growls, pulling her hard against him. “ _Really_?” She grins and squirms in his arms, rolling her hips against his and biting his lip when he goes to kiss her.

“Oh, you asked for it,” he breathes, running his hands up under her shirt and flicking her bra open. Her skin is hot to the touch and impossibly smooth. Her eyes, looking at him, are predatory. “Come on, Lawson. Impress me.”

“I hope you weren’t planning on getting a full night of sleep,” Mike says and she laughs, bright and irrepressible. He tugs the shirt over her head, pulls her bra off and leans her backwards over his knees, taking one perfect brown nipple in his mouth. The noise she makes in response briefly short-circuits his brain but luckily doesn’t slow down the rest of him, operating under sheer animal instinct.

No matter what Ginny might think, she is _not_ going to make him hurry. There’s a time and a place for a fast fuck, but this definitely isn’t it. He moves leisurely from one breast to the other, listening to the way her breath hitches every time he runs the flat of his tongue across her nipple or traces the plump undersides with his fingertips. From the way she’s reacting, it’s clear that there’s a very good chance that he could make her come just from this, but then Ginny straightens up, shaking her head, and says, “Shirt. Off.”

She’s less than helpful as he complies, running her hands over his chest and down his sides, scraping her blunt pitcher’s nails over his skin and giggling when he starts. Then she sighs as he wraps his arms around her and kisses her, slow and deep.

There’s a moment of panic where Mike isn’t sure his crapped-out knees will allow him to pick her up and carry her off to bed; she’s wrapped around him like a vine clinging to a tree trunk, legs locked around his waist and her arms wreathed around his neck. He grits his teeth, slides his hands under her ass, and lifts her up. His knees protest but he’s able to stand with her in his arms and makes his way to the bottom of the staircase. “Mike…” she says uncertainly, glancing around.

“Don’t ruin it, Baker,” he says gruffly.

“Don’t _drop_ me, Lawson,” she replies.

“Just for that, I might,” he says and starts up the stairs.

 

The morning after Mike sleeps with Ginny for the first time is slightly chaotic. They’d overslept the alarm he’d set the night before and there’s a lot of flailing about and rushing up and down the stairs as she tries to find all of her discarded clothes, strewn about the place. He leaves her to it, heading to the kitchen to make her some toast. She doesn’t have time for a full breakfast but he figures it’s the least he can do.

She winces a little when she sits down on the barstool across from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, serving up the toast.

“Oh,” she says, “nothing, I’m just…a little sore.” She looks adorably embarrassed and Mike is torn between feeling unbearably smug and unreasonably concerned.

“It’s not gonna be a problem for you, is it? At training?” He pours a glass of orange juice and pushes it over to her. She picks it up, shaking her head. “No, it’s fine.”

“Sorry.”

Ginny meets his gaze then, a hint of a smirk on her face. “You _apologizing_ for sex?”

“I—that’s not what—I just meant that I’m sorry you’re sore.” Mike scowls at her and she dimples back at him, unruffled.

“That’s very sweet. You’re sweet.”

“Shut up.”

“Like a cute, cuddly teddy bear.”

“Baker.”

“I wonder what everyone would say if they got to see your soft, gooey center.”

“Remember how I got you to shut up last night?” he says mildly and is gratified when she closes her mouth with a snap. “Now eat your toast like a good little ballplayer.”

They spend the ten minutes she has left before she has to leave talking about the next few days of spring training. Ginny looks surprised when he says he’s not going to come down to watch, so Mike explains, “I don’t wanna get in the way. You guys have to learn how to be a team without me.”

She quirks a brow. “You really think you cast that big a shadow?” Mike just looks at her. She sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Look,” he says gently, “take it from someone who’s been there before. It’d be weird for me to around. But after the first couple days, you won’t even miss me.”

“Well, maybe I won’t _on_ the field,” Ginny replies, cocking her head and letting her eyes drift languorously down his body. Mike feels his cheeks heating in response and is vaguely embarrassed to see that she notices. She grins at him and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I’m trying to remember the last time I saw you blush,” she says, still grinning.

“Have you always been this annoying?”

“According to my brother, yes,” she says, shrugging, and slides off the barstool. She stretches carelessly, raising her arms up over her head, and her shirt rides up. Mike’s eyes are drawn, helplessly, to the smooth expanse of skin revealed there and before he can think twice about it he rounds the counter and crowds her up against it. His fingertips trace over her hipbones and the small flare of her waist and Ginny shivers, her hands settling on his biceps.

“We don’t have time to talk about this now,” he says and she nods. “But we should, at some point. When you’re back.”

“Mike…” she begins and he leans down and kisses her. It’s unfair, probably: Mike knows that there are some things he is very, very good at, and kissing is one of them. When he pulls away, she’s breathless, her eyes a little glazed. Whatever she’d been about to say is forgotten for the time being.

“When you’re back,” he repeats firmly and steps away from her, turning her towards the front door. “Now go.”

She goes. It’s not the first time Mike’s watched Ginny walk away from him. But it’s the first time he doesn’t feel a pang as she leaves him and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, the sensation flowing through him instead feels more like a beginning.

**


End file.
